Thursday, August 30, 2012

I recently had the joyous experience of changing my Facebook relationship status from "In A Relationship" to "Single". I would have preferred the option to change my status to "I'm Sad and Willing to Let you Buy Me Massive Amounts of Drinks and Tell me I'm Pretty for a Handjob" but Facebook is too lame to have that option. Also I feel like when you change your status someone from Facebook should mail you a care package with Xanax, slutty underwear and a bottle of Jim Beam. A gun would also be cool but I can see why that might cause a conflict of interest.

In the past when I've broken up with someone they've immediately been dead to me. They've pretty much been transported to another planet where their genitals are gnawed off but regenerate just to get gnawed off again the next day by some nasty little creature covered in scabies and crabs. At least if dreams came true that would be the case. Kidding. Sort of. Not really at all. But I don't believe in remaining friends with someone who has seen you naked, most likely farted on you at some point and/or has high-fived one of your siblings after tagging you in their guest room. I feel like if you don't like me enough to buy me flowers and walk my dog when I'm too drunk...then you don't get the pleasure of watching me go full tranny train wreck status every weekend and most weekdays.

This particular situation is precarious for multiple reasons. Also I feel like at this point in my life I need to start working towards this whole being a mature adult thing. I figure since I still take my pants off in public and vomit behind bars on the weekend, and I don't plan on fixing that anytime soon, I can be more adult in how I handle disappointments in my life. The whole "let's be friends" discussion came up. My first thought was "DIE". No joke. I wanted his life to end. I pretty much wanted his body to explode into blood and gooey shit like when a vampire is staked on True Blood. After my homicidal anger somewhat subsided to a level 2 rage blackout...I considered the option. But here's the thing, when a guy says he wants to be friends after a break up what he really means is "I don't want bad karma for dicking you over and would like to think I have the option of pounding you again someday." What a girl like me thinks is "I would rather pound ANYONE in the world than you right now." And when I say anyone I mean Danny Devito can writhe his tiny, hairy little body all over me and I'd be okay with it.

As far as having sex with an ex, I see it this way; unless I can literally black widow you after sex, then no. The muffin shop is closed my new friend. For me it's not so much that I think I'd feel all lovey and shit if I boned someone that I genuinely liked and wanted to be around at one point and now range between slight affection and pure hatred for, it's more that I don't want to know that you are having a good time. Even if that good time ends up in my hair a little bit, I'm not about it. I'd like to believe that your penis is rubbed raw from all of your masturbating and that the last girl who looked at you at the bar laughed when you thought you had a chance. Also I want him to think that I've slept with so many people since we broke up that my vagina is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Just think about that for a second. Yeah, I know. Take a minute to vomit and then come back to me. If you bone each other than you know what's been going on. The chastity bush cannot make an appearance because then the mystery is all over. And let's be real, one of the best parts about being single again is letting shit get a little unorganized downtown. I'm pretty sure every person reading this wants to have sex with me right now. (Call me).

My motto has always been: Date someone more fucked up and emotionally retarded than me so when I go full Courtney Love, it's just another Tuesday. The problem is that we all know what happened to Courtney and Kurt. I need to find someone who will gently coach me back into my pants, pull me out of the kiddie pool in someone's front yard at 3:00 a.m. and ice my fingers when I burn it on a cigarette while throwing my arms around violently telling a story to a homeless person outside the bar on a Thursday night. This doesn't work if my caretaker is taking a shit behind a van in a parking lot while trying to convince Dominos to deliver to him, mid-squat. Despite my intense love and adoration of fellow train wrecks, it's time to retire my flannel and ripped fishnets and try to find a real person to take whiskey shots with.

I'll continue to work on being an adult and resist the urge to go all Carrie Underwood and carve my name into his torso while he sleeps. But if I slip up and "accidentally" leave my dog poop bag next to your car door consider yourself lucky. And then watch an episode of "Snapped" and you'll see what I mean.